


Let Me See You Get Low

by ellydash



Category: Glee
Genre: Future Fic, Humiliation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-08
Updated: 2011-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellydash/pseuds/ellydash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several years after graduation, Will unexpectedly runs into Kurt at a bar. It’s not the last surprising thing that happens that night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me See You Get Low

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to themillersson at LJ for her beta on this!

_Hey there, friend, you’ve reached the voicemail of Shannon Beiste, athletics coach at McKinley High. I can’t answer my phone right now, but leave me a message and I’ll get back to you faster than a knife fight in a pint-sized phone booth. You have yourself a great day, okay?_

“Shannon,” Will says, after the tone. He clears his throat. “Hey. Hi, pal. It’s Wednesday night – well, I guess you know that – anyway, it’s about eight o’clock and I’m sitting at home and wondering if you’re free? There’s a fight on in about an hour and I’ve got popcorn. We could make it a friendly bet or something? I can’t remember if you said you were still in town over the holiday but I think you said you were? Anyway, uh, call me back if you get –”

The voicemail beeps, cutting him off.

“ – this tonight,” he finishes, wincing, and thinks, _wow, Schuester, that was pathetic_.

Now that he’s really thinking about it, Shannon’s probably at her sister’s in Dayton. She’d said something during lunch the other day about seeing her nephew, a two year old kid, or four, maybe? He thinks it’s a nephew. Could be a niece. Obsessed with dinosaurs. Or fire trucks, Will can’t remember. He’d been too busy trying to watch Emma out of the corner of his eye without drawing too much attention to himself.

Emma’s name feels like it always does when he says it to himself, heavy, and he leans back against the couch cushions, scrolling through his contacts (it doesn’t take long; there aren’t many entries), finding her. He can’t manage not to do it. At some point, Will knows he should probably delete her name, get her out so the simple act of picking up his phone doesn’t make him feel nauseous, but he hasn’t found the nerve, not yet.

He stares into the living room, listening to the thick click of the clock on the mantle. Will’s eyes train, out of habit, on the small dark chip on the door frame leading into the hallway, a years-old mark from when Terri had dragged in a particularly unwieldy mahogany bedside table. Full price at Restoration Hardware. He still remembers how dizzy he’d felt seeing the credit card bill.

Five whole years since the divorce. It feels like longer, somehow.

The phone in his hand vibrates, and he looks down, hoping to see Shannon’s name, already thinking _okay, buddy, try not to sound_ too _happy to hear from her_.

MOM, the screen announces, and he tosses the phone away, reflexively. It twitches, still buzzing, into the gap between the couch cushions.

He needs to get out, is what he needs.

_____

 

The Filling Station isn’t much to speak of, as far as hole-in-the-wall dive bars go, but it’s pretty near to his apartment, maybe a ten minute walk, and at least he doesn’t have to worry about driving or getting a cab. Not that Will plans on getting seriously drunk tonight. He knows from experience that when he’s in this kind of a mood, having more than a beer or two turns out to be a bad idea.

It’s dark inside in that way dive bars always are, not just dim but heavy with what’s missing: in this case, a sense of intentional décor or care. There isn’t much in the way of design, besides the few pictures scattered around the burgundy walls, a botched attempt at making the place seem homey. It doesn’t work, but then again, home’s never what Will’s looking for when he comes here.

“Whatever you’ve got on tap tonight, Roy,” he says to the bartender, settling on one of the stools and slapping the counter, trying for friendly emphasis. “Whatever’s darker.”

“Coming right up,” Roy says, cheerfully, and grabs a glass that looks clean enough. He’s as much a fixture of the Filling Station as the sticky naugahyde booths or the broken toilet seat, always free with a friendly smile. “Hey, good to see you, man. Been a while. Got plans for Thanksgiving?”

“I do,” he says, before he realizes he’s lying, and then, because it’s easier to go ahead with it, “Having dinner with some friends. People from my jogging group. You?”

“Whole crew’s coming round,” Roy grins, pulling the handle forward, tilting the pint glass. Will watches the head grow over the rise of porter. It’s beautiful. “Marcie’s folks are in town, the kids are excited. It’s gonna be good this year.”

“Nice.” He’s already reaching out for the glass, a little too quickly. Maybe he’s thirstier than he thought. “Sounds great.”

“I thought I heard someone familiar.”

Startled, Will turns to his right, and his mouth opens a little in happy surprise. Of all the people he’d expect to frequent this bar – “Kurt. Well, I’ll be damned, Kurt Hummel. It’s great to see you! What are you doing here? Are you –” He looks behind him, peering into the dark corner. “Is Finn around? You guys home for Thanksgiving? I can’t believe it, it’s great to see you.”

“Mr. Schue,” Kurt says, smiling at him, the same Kurt Hummel, maybe a little noticeably older, like they all are these days. His arms are crossed over a shirt (blouse?) Will can’t even begin to figure out. It’s pinched in places, the bright fabric distressed and slashed at odd angles. Will’s sure, even though it looks bizarre as hell to his own eyes, that it’s the creation of some up-and-coming New York designer. He can’t imagine Kurt wearing anything that isn’t cutting edge. “Yes, I’m home for Thanksgiving this year. And no, Finn isn’t with me. I was supposed to meet Puck here for a drink. His choice of venue, of course, not mine. He just sent me a text – apparently the hospital offered him an extra shift tonight, and he’s saving up for that ring for Lauren, so –” He squints a little at the far wall, face tight with incredulity. “Is that a shadow or a huge stain? _Please_ tell me it’s a shadow.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Will suggests, and pats the stool next to him. “My general policy when I’m here is not to look too closely at anything. Have a seat, Kurt. Catch up with me instead. I’d love to hear about what’s going on with your life.”

Kurt looks a little wary at the prospect of sitting down, but does so, gingerly, resting on the edge of the stool so that as little of his pants as possible touch the faux leather. “Well, I see you’ve learned a new outfit,” he says, glancing at Will. “I’m very impressed.”

Will looks down at his own clothes, reflexively. He’s wearing a cotton tee and jeans, nothing special or dressy, but maybe that’s what Kurt means.

“The vests,” Kurt adds, and Will wonders if his confusion is really that obvious. “You’ve broken your vest and cardigan pattern.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I always thought you needed a makeover more badly than Joan Crawford needed a parenting class and waxing strips.”

“That badly, huh?”

“This is a much better look on you. Actually, go down a shirt size or two, trim about three inches off the bottom of those jeans, add a pork pie hat and you’d blend right in at certain establishments in Morningside Heights.”

It’s odd, how good that makes him feel. He’s too old to care much about things like that, but finding out he’s stumbled on a trend, even if it’s with his eyes closed, fills Will with a sense of bizarre accomplishment.

“I’m glad to see you too,” he says, wryly. “It’s been a long time. What, two years? Three? I think the last time I saw you – ”

“ – You came to New York to visit April and you took the three of us out for dinner in the Village.”

“Overpriced,” Will remembers. “And not that good. But you were. I mean, it was so good to see you guys again – you, and Blaine, and Rachel. Like old times.”

“Without the slushies and Coach Sylvester’s pointless fanatical vendettas,” Kurt notes. “How is she, by the way? Still winning competitions and attempting to ruin your life every chance she gets?” He’s got a fond look on his face. “I should stop by her office while I’m here. I could give her the opportunity to come up with another nickname for me. I have a strange suspicion she’d enjoy that.”

“Sue –” He tries to think of a way to explain it. Sue hasn’t changed, not really, despite the occasional fits of conscience she gets once or twice a year, like flu. “She’s – well, she’s Sue Sylvester. You know what she’s like. She’s always there.” It’s reassuring, in a weird kind of way. The sun might stop rising, the earth might stop turning, but somewhere, Sue will always be scheming, trying to win whatever she can, and threatening him with a salvo of insults simultaneously varied and immensely, happily familiar.

“I do know what she’s like.”

Will remembers, once upon a time, Sue and Kurt had been close, or what counted for close with Sue. He’d always had the sneaking suspicion that Kurt preferred Sue to him, and he’d been okay with that, mostly. Sue’d never had much in terms of unforced loyalty.

“What’ll you have, kid?” Roy asks, placing both hands wide on the counter. “I’ll need to see some ID, by the way. You look about eighteen to me, and that’s being generous.”

“I’d like a Brandy Crusta,” Kurt says, his chin raised a little, and pulls out a money clip with a driver’s license at the edge, holding it at arm’s length. “There. Twenty-two.”

Roy blinks, and at first Will thinks he doesn’t believe the ID’s real. “You want a what? A Brandy Crusta? What the hell’s that?”

Will isn’t sure, himself.

“Cognac, Grand Marnier, lemon juice – look, if you don’t know what it is, never mind. I’ll just have a Manhattan. Do you know how to make that?”

Roy’s face isn’t pleasant. “Kid,” he says, slowly. “I started bartending when you were still pissing in your didies. I know how to make a damn Manhattan, all right? Lose the attitude or get your ass out of my bar.”

Kurt reddens a little, and doesn’t answer. His chin stays high.

“You don’t have to order a fancy cocktail, you know,” Will says, gently, as Roy turns his back to them again, busying himself behind the bar.

“I’m not following.”

“You don’t need to impress anyone, Kurt.”

As soon as it’s out he knows it was the wrong thing to say, because the look on Kurt’s flushed face is wounded, suddenly young.

“I’m not trying to impress you,” Kurt snaps. “I like Brandy Crustas. I drink them all the time. I do go to bars in New York, you know. I’m not seventeen anymore. I’m an adult.”

“I just mean – ” Will’s fumbling, not sure how to make this okay. “You’re a striking person all on your own, Kurt. I just meant that whether or not you order a Manhattan or a Brandy Crusta or a – or a Sprite, it won’t influence my or anyone’s opinion of you.”

“No offense, Mr. Schue, but my alcohol choices really aren’t based on your approval.”

Will doesn’t know how to answer that.

They sit together in silence, the noise of the other patrons around them a welcome filler. Will’s thinking he should probably make some excuse, say he’s got to head home for one reason or another, and while he’s trying to come up with something that doesn’t sound like a complete lie, Kurt turns back to him and says, in a different tone of voice, lighter, “You’ll be happy to know Rachel’s doing well.”

Will exhales, relieved. This is easier. “That’s great to hear. Her last email was a couple of months ago, but she seemed like she was happy. Got a speaking role in some off-off-Broadway play, right?” He doesn’t mention the other news Rachel had shared with him in her email; doesn’t want to remind Kurt about it, when he’s sure Blaine’s the last thing Kurt wants to discuss. God knows he hates it when people ask him how he’s doing post-Emma.

“Right.” Kurt’s face is relaxing. They’re on safer ground, here. Shared ground. Rachel’s their common denominator. “Three whole lines. I could quote them to you verbatim, she’s been practicing so often. Every kind of inflection and emphasis possible. I’d tell you I was sick of hearing her recite them around the apartment, but if I’m being honest, after the Fanny Brice phase she went through over the summer, I’m just happy for the change-up.”

“What’s wrong with Fanny Brice?” Will asks, feeling a little defensive. Her recording of “I’d Rather Be Blue Over You (Then Be Happy With Somebody Else)” is one of his favorites; it’s gotten him through a lot of tough times. He’d even rank it over Streisand’s, any day.

“There’s no denying she was a supreme talent, but frankly, Mr. Schue, if I had to listen to that scratchy Good News recording of ‘I Was a Floradora Baby’ at seven in the morning one more time, drastic measures would’ve been called for. _Drastic measures_.”

Will wonders what those drastic measures might have been. A passive-aggressive music battle? He can imagine Kurt turning up his stereo speakers until Bernadette Peters (or Audra McDonald, or Betty Buckley, or Sutton Foster) wrestles vocally with Fanny for the attention of every last person living in their overpriced, undersized walk-up. He sees Kurt, dignified, tossing Brice CDs or maybe Rachel’s iPod out of their small kitchen window into the brick wall four feet away, in a perfect, well-timed arc. Rachel launching herself at Kurt with a outraged shriek, her fury too big for her size and judgment.

An unexpected wave of jealousy floods him. Will clutches the beer in his hand. They’re so young.

“I’m glad you were able to avoid that,” he says, carefully. “And you? You’re doing well? You’re happy? Things are good with you?”

“Yes,” Kurt says, after a pause long enough to let Will know he’s actually giving it real consideration. “I’m great, actually. I’m living the life I used to dream about back here. I’ve gotten three callbacks in the last four months, which is mildly encouraging. I have a supportive network of friends who don’t see me as freakish or abnormal or something that should be stamped out. I can buy my clothes in a store rather than be forced to order them online. And mark my words, one of these days Anna Wintour will finally read one of the many, many lilac-scented, impeccably fonted cover letters I’ve hand-delivered to her office and hire me as her personal assistant. It’ll be exactly like _The Devil Wears Prada_ , only I won’t need a makeover and we won’t have weirdly inappropriate sexual chemistry.” His face brightens. “Just imagine the wardrobe benefits.”

“You had a supportive network here.” Will can’t help but feel a little defensive. “You had glee club. We never saw you as freakish or abnormal. You were part of us.”

Kurt looks at Will as if Will’s an idiot. “Of course,” he says. “I know that. But everyone _else_ saw us that way. And frankly, I got singled out for the worst of it. It was relentless, Mr. Schue. Completely relentless. I don’t think you ever really appreciated or understood how hard it was for me at that school.”

“I know you had a difficult time. I’m sorry for that. I wish it had been easier for you. For all of you. You were all different, and no one in high school ever really appreciates difference. That’s why I felt so strongly about making sure glee –”

“You know, for all the horrible things she did to us over the years,” Kurt says, suddenly, “Coach Sylvester was the one who made sure Karofsky was suspended when he attacked me. I’ve always been grateful to her for making that happen, even if it didn’t stick.”

Will hasn’t thought about Daniel Karofsky in years. Or was it Daniel? Maybe David, some name that began with a D. One of those kids he’d pegged as peaking in high school, athletic in a way that disappears after the fifth year of dragging home after a long, unrewarding work day and drinking a beer or four in front of the TV.

“I’m glad to hear you’re happy now, Kurt,” he says, getting back to what feels like safer ground. “You know I want the best for all of you. For all of my kids.”

“I know you do, Mr. Schuester.”

“You can call me Will now, you know. Rachel and Finn do. Puck, too.”

Kurt doesn’t answer right away, drumming the side of his glass with his fingertips, looking far more intently at it than it deserves. It looks odd, and Will can’t figure out why until he realizes that Kurt’s never been one for idle movements. He’s always been deliberate with his gestures.

“No, thank you,” Kurt says, politely. “I think I’m more comfortable with Mr. Schue.”

___

He’s on his fourth beer, or maybe his fifth, he’s lost count, trying to figure out why the hell talking to Kurt’s making him so uneasy when it’s _Kurt_ , after all, when Kurt says, out of nowhere, “I had a small crush on you at the beginning of my sophomore year.”

“Oh,” is all Will can think to answer.

Kurt sets his empty glass on the table, signaling to Roy. “I don’t think I’d be admitting this to you without an increased blood alcohol level, but it’s the embarrassing truth. Don’t worry, I got over it by the spring semester.”

Will’s pleased and uncomfortable, all at once. “You got over it that quickly?” he asks, finally hearing Kurt’s last admission, and he probably shouldn’t sound hurt by that, but he does. He can hear it.

“Let’s face it, Mr. Schue, you were the only adult male in that building who merited anything close to an ill-advised schoolboy crush. What were my options? Coach Tanaka? Mr. Rollins? Mr. _Kidney_ , for God’s sake? No, thank you.”

“Uh, I’m flattered. I think.”

Roy sets down another Manhattan on the bar in front of Kurt, a little harder than he needs to. The drink sloshes a bit, threatening overflow.

“Despite some – personality traits you possess that, quite frankly, used to irritate the hell out of me, you were –” Kurt pauses, seeming to search for the right words, and takes a generous sip from his glass. “You loved music. And Broadway, and performing. And you used hair products, even though your taste in gels admittedly left a lot to be desired.” His gaze lifts, fixing on Will’s hairline. “Still leaves a lot to be desired, from what I can tell in this light.”

“You’re good at this backward complimenting thing,” Will says, wryly. “Honestly, Kurt, I’m surprised. I never thought –” He closes his mouth, suddenly nervous he might say something else to offend him. His tongue’s too loose right now.

“That I liked you all that much?”

Will nods.

“I just wanted you to be okay with me,” Kurt tells him. “That was all I wanted. I didn’t care about being your favorite.”

This doesn’t make sense to Will, who’s always prided himself on loving all of his kids in the way he knows they deserve to be loved, for all their faults and talents. Of course he’d been okay with Kurt. He’d been okay with all his glee kids. More than okay. He’d loved them. He still does.

“Do you remember,” Kurt says, abruptly changing topics, “that time you asked why I was letting the bullying get to me, when I’d always been so good about taking it before? Do you remember saying that to me? Right before I transferred.”

Will searches his mind. He’s got snapshots back there of Kurt surrounded by a crowd of older, taller boys, Kurt in the hallway with a hockey player or someone on the football team stepping up to him, walking him back into a locker. The look on Kurt’s face, proud and insolent, frozen in defiance, and Will’s own uneasiness. Interfering, in most cases, usually made things worse.

“I don’t,” he says, after a pause. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember asking that. I remember you transferring junior year, obviously, and the hard time you had, but – ”

“You asked me that,” Kurt continues, undeterred, and takes a big mouthful of his drink, swallowing the dregs, “you asked me and it made me feel like it was _my fault_ for being terrified, Mr. Schue. Not Karofsky’s fault for going after me. Mine, for not being able to deal with it. And I told you your lesson plans were boring and repetitive because I was angry and scared and I didn’t know how to say you were making me feel worse.”

“Oh,” Will manages. “I had no idea you felt like that. I never meant –”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.” The thought that he’d somehow made what Kurt went through even harder for him – that thought makes him sick to his stomach. He’d never hurt any of his kids. He’d never do that. They’re his kids. “I wish – I’d take it back if I could.”

“That’s helpful.”

“I’ll tell you I’m sorry again. I don’t know what else I can do.”

“Your lesson plans _were_ boring and repetitive, by the way,” Kurt cuts in, too fast. He’s not slurring his words, but there’s a thickness to them that wasn’t there before, and Will wonders just how much of the swigging he’s done has to do with the need for liquid courage. “Just because I said that in anger didn’t make it untrue. Journey is overrated, by the way.”

“Anything else?” Will says, tightly. He’s happy to apologize for making Kurt feel badly, if that’s what he did, but he’s not prepared to apologize for his entire professional existence, either. He’s a good teacher. The gushing notes in his yearbooks, the emails he still gets from students, the visits, the dedications at assemblies, the jealousy he sees in Sue’s face, sometimes, when she thinks he isn’t looking – all that attests to it. “You’ve obviously got a lot to get off your chest. Why don’t you keep going? What else did I do that was so terrible?”

Kurt stares at him. “Really. You actually want to hear this.”

“Go ahead.” Will lifts his hands, indicating permission, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “What else? I didn’t give you enough solos, right?”

“ _Enough_? That’s an understatement. Glee was always the Rachel Berry Show, guest-starring Finn, with special appearances by Blaine senior year, and maybe a one-liner from Mercedes on the rare occasion you felt like throwing her a bone. Maybe in show-choir world I’m not considered leading man material, but your constant refusal to give me a chance to prove myself was incredibly short-sighted and, if I’m being honest, somewhat hurtful.”

“I’m sorry I was such a horrible teacher,” Will snaps, feeling incredibly defensive. “I’m sorry I gave you guys a space where you were free to be yourselves. I’m sorry I defended you against Sue’s schemes. I’m so sorry I led you guys to a national title your senior year. That must’ve been really difficult for you to deal with.”

“Oh, fuck you, Mr. Schue,” Kurt retorts, immediately, and then goes pale. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

Will’s a little shaken, himself. He’d had no idea Kurt had ever been this angry with him, and he’s even more unsettled by the fact that his anger’s apparently lasted as long as it had. Four years or more, he’s been carrying this around?

“No, you clearly meant it, and you needed to say it to me, so –” He shrugs, trying to make it less uncomfortable for the both of them, less heavy. “It’s all right. I probably shouldn’t have been so sarcastic.”

Kurt looks down at his glass, not answering. _Fuck you_ , Will hears again, echoing in his head, and this time there’s a tight response inside him, sharp like guilt.

“So,” he says, after too long a pause. They need something safe. “Rachel.”

“Rachel,” Kurt repeats, sounding relieved. The tension lifts a little.

____

“Everybody out,” Roy’s calling, somewhere in the distance, and Will drags his eyes off Kurt’s face long enough to see Roy waving his arms behind the bar. “We’re closing.”

He’s drunk, Will realizes. Really, pretty drunk. He knows this because he has no clue what he’s been saying to Kurt for at least the last half an hour, maybe more. They could’ve been talking about dinosaurs, for all he knows.

Judging by Kurt’s slack expression, he’s not much more with it than Will is.

“You gotta way to get home?” he tries, putting a hand out to touch Kurt’s forearm through the sleeve of his shirt. “Puck or Finn or your dad? To call them.”

Kurt pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, mashes the screen, and squints at it. “Battery ended,” he says, finally. “It died. Can I use yours?”

Will pats his pockets until he remembers he’s left his phone at home. “No. I mean, you could if I had it but I didn’t bring it with me. Look, why don’t you just come back to my place? You can use my phone and call someone to come get you. Or you could sleep it off there and call someone in the morning. I have a spare bedroom.” He’s vaguely aware he’s babbling, but doesn’t seem to be able to stop himself. “Spare PJs, too. Look, you’re my student, my former student, I have responsibilities to you so you’re okay, Kurt. Okay? Let me do that for you. Let me make it up to you. I’ll make it okay.”

He’s barely aware of what he’s saying. He’s still touching Kurt’s arm.

On the walk back to his place, Will stumbles once, more from the dim streetlamps failing to light their way than the amount of alcohol he’s got in him.

Kurt rests his hand lightly on Will’s back as he’s standing up.

“You’re all right?” he asks.

His hand is warm even through Will’s jacket, and it takes Will an embarrassingly long time to find the word yes.

____

Oh, shit, he’s drunk. He’s really drunk.

“I am not making good choices right now,” he says to Kurt, handing him a glass with a couple of fingers, and Kurt, taking an immediate slug out of the glass, looks like he knows exactly what Will meant by that. “No more good choices left. They’re all gone. This is – Are you comfortable? Can I get you some pajama bottoms or something to have?”

“As a general rule,” Kurt comments, shifting a little on Will’s couch, “when a man invites me up to his place after drinks, it isn’t because he wants to get me _into_ clothing.” He wags an unsteady finger. “No, it is not.”

It takes Will an embarrassingly long amount of time to figure out what Kurt means by that, and when he does he makes a choking sound that’s pretty much the opposite of dignified. “Excuse me?” he asks, when he’s able to make words again. “Kurt, are you saying that I want – ? Because I would never, I could never. You’re my student.” _And I’m straight_ , he doesn’t say, even though it’s a little less cut-and-dried than that. A few reoccurring dreams, here and there. A fumbling, rushed, clutching thing with Bryan Ryan in the choir room closet senior year that neither of them had ever talked about again. Dustin Goolsby’s mocking smile and big hands, a standby image he reaches for when he’s close and needs to get over the edge. Straight, for the most part.

“Of course not,” Kurt says. “Of course you wouldn’t. And I’m your _former_ student, remember?” He eyes Will, and Will flushes, face and chest heating with the pressure of being looked at. He’s being – what’s the word? _Appraised_. That’s what it feels like. And he can’t help but feel like he’s coming up short. “Remember we had graduation? Rachel cried all the way through ‘The Way We Were.’ Puck did that acoustic version of ‘Breakaway.’ Hats.” He mimes tossing the mortarboard into the air. “Chiffon. Tears. Glitter explosions.”

“Do you do that a lot.” Oh, god, he needs to stop talking, Will needs to do that _right now_. “Go up to places with men. You just, you and Blaine were just over. A few months ago, right? How many times have you done that?”

Something passes over Kurt’s face then, something Will’s aware enough to notice and drunk enough not to understand. “You know about Blaine? Oh, Rachel and her big mouth. Or did Finn tell you? I bet it was Finn.”

“Rachel,” Will confirms. “In her email. I’m so sorry, Kurt. But it’s good, you know. In the long run.”

“Please,” Kurt says, shortly. “You tell me why it’s good. Go on.”

“The thing is Terri and I – look, Kurt, we were kids like you. Your age, you and Blaine back in the beginning, sixteen. And I didn’t, you know, date, or have time to know what I really wanted, and then – ” Will holds up his own glass, toasting it to his mistakes. “Old. I’m old now. Can’t keep a relationship. The woman I held candles for, Emma, Ms. Pillsbury, you remember her, it all went wrong somehow and I don’t know why and now I’m alone and drunk with my student. Former. Former student.”

“A: Blaine is not your ex-wife and I am _definitely_ not you,” Kurt says, holding up a finger, settling back into the couch cushions. “Or Blaine isn’t you and I’m not your ex-wife. Either way. Sit down, you’re too tall like that.”

Will sits down on the couch, obligingly.

Kurt lifts another finger. “Number two, I would like to absolutely not talk about Blaine with you. Okay? And actually there’s nothing to talk about. Nothing happened. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I still care very deeply about him and he feels the same way about me and we’ll always have that. It was just – over.”

“Completely understand,” Will says. “No more Blaine talk.”

“D: you can’t be all _that_ old. How old are you?”

“Pretty old.” It’s funny, but whenever someone asks him that question the first answer that comes to his mind is _seventeen. I’m seventeen_. Then the sense of vertigo when he remembers the real number. “Thirty-seven. Really old. How did that happen?”

“Ancient,” Kurt agrees, but he’s smiling. “You are _terrible_ at advice.”

Will nods, and because he can’t think of anything to say to that he takes a nice long drink, letting the whisky burn down his throat. It feels good. It feels like getting clean, somehow, and that makes him think of Emma, and then he doesn’t feel good anymore. He feels nauseous.

“I don’t make a habit of going home with guys I date, if that’s what you want to know,” Kurt says, suddenly. “Once in the last two months. I get invitations. It doesn’t mean I have to take them.”

“Once,” Will repeats, resting his empty glass on his jeans. There’s a weird hum of energy in the room, and he doesn’t know if Kurt’s feeling it too, but it’s strong enough that he thinks he could reach out and touch it if he tried, if he knew where to hold on. “So you did do it, what you said.”

A nod.

“I hope you were careful.”

One of Kurt’s eyebrows lifts. “I’m always careful.”

“You used protection?” _Shut up, Schuester. Just shut up._

“I made him wear a condom when he screwed me,” Kurt says, archly, “yes. Both times that night. Is that what you wanted to know, Mr. Schue?”

His mouth is instantly dry. Will automatically goes to take another drink; stops halfway when he realizes the glass is still empty. He’s being very successful at not imagining what Kurt’s just told him.

The light flickers, once, or maybe that’s his vision.

“It’s what I wanted to know,” he says, lowering the glass back onto his lap. “I guess. Yes.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

 _No_ , he says, in his head, _you do not want to know anything more about this, keep your mouth shut_ , but what comes out is a quiet, “Does it feel – what is it like? Is it good?”

The second he says it, his head scalds with the heat of embarrassment, with shame and he wants to take it back. He half expects Kurt to slam his glass down on the coffee table, stand up and walk out of the apartment without a word, and he wouldn’t blame him a bit, but instead Kurt tilts his head to the side a little. He looks like he’s considering something.

“You want to know what it feels like?” he says. “Help me out here, Mr. Schue, because I’m not exactly sober right now, and it sounds to me like you’re asking if it feels good to–”

“I’m not. Never mind. I don’t want to know anymore.”

“You want to know,” Kurt pushes ahead, sitting up straight and setting down his glass, “what it feels like to have sex with another man. Well, can’t say I’m surprised. I always thought you were a little _loud_ about your heterosexuality.”

“No,” Will says, because that isn’t it, it’s not that simple, even if he can’t find the words to say what it, exactly, is, and then, in a burst, “No. Yes. For you. What it feels like for you, when someone’s –”

“Do you want to get fucked?” Kurt asks, abruptly. His tone's almost flat, casual, like he’s making an observation about the phrasing of a song. “Is that why you’re asking?”

Will’s grip on the whiskey glass loosens, hand suddenly slack with shock, and the glass drops, falling from his knee, striking the edge of the coffee table. Somewhere in the periphery of his vision it hits the floor, rolling under the couch, out of sight and reach. He can’t speak.

“That’s why you’re asking, isn’t it? You want someone to screw you.” Kurt pauses, and even through the bad light in his living room Will sees the color spreading on his cheeks. "You want to get fucked."

“Kurt,” he tries, weakly. It sounds more like a whine than a protest, and oh, God, just listening to this coming out of Kurt’s mouth he’s getting hard so _fast_.

Kurt’s staring at him. Will isn’t sure what’s stronger, the nausea or the need.

“You know, why is it,” Kurt continues, “that every time I try to make eye contact with you, you look away? Is it honestly that hard to look at me? Still? Even after all this time?”

“I’m sorry.” Will isn’t exactly sure what he’s apologizing for, but he knows it’s needed, somehow. He watches the chair opposite them, training his eyes on the way the fabric hugs the cushion. “Sometimes. It is, sometimes, yes. I’m sorry, Kurt. I don’t, I’ll just – I need to get another glass from the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”

When he stands up, he realizes, too late, that Kurt can see the way his cock’s swelling against the crotch of his jeans, and he moves fast, almost stumbling into the coffee table, trying to get out before things get worse for him.

The kitchen’s dark, and Will doesn’t bother to turn on the light. There’s no point, since the living room’s illuminating his way well enough, and anyway, he knows his way around. He reaches up for the clean glass he knows he’s got on one of the higher shelves, hands searching in the dark recesses where his eyes can’t help.

“What are you doing,” Kurt says behind him, not a question, and Will stumbles off the tips of his toes, surprised.

“Another glass,” he manages, and turns around. “I was getting another glass. I think I said that to you.”

“Because you dropped the first one.”

“Yes.”

“Because you were clumsy.”

Will’s face burns.

“I didn’t mean to drop it,” he tries. “I need a new one.”

“Is that really why you came running in here?”

“No,” Will says, feeling helpless. “It isn’t.”

“You went running,” Kurt says, “because you didn’t want me to see _that_." He looks, pointedly, at Will's crotch.  
Will makes a sound, then, a completely undignified, embarrassing burst of noise. He’s vaguely aware that he’s shaking, as much from nerves as from arousal. “Kurt.”

“If I told you,” Kurt says, thoughtfully, “to turn around and bend over the counter. If I told you to brace your hands against the wall and spread your legs. You’d do it for me, wouldn’t you? I wouldn’t have to ask you twice.”

“Kurt –”

(He would. Oh, god, he would. He’d rut up against the kitchen drawers, Kurt behind him, an unforgiving hand over Will’s mouth keeping him quiet, maybe. He’d come fast like that, he knows, cock rubbing against the drawers. Come inside his pants like a kid. Like a teenager. Kurt’s mouth on his ear saying _look at what you did, Will. Couldn’t control yourself. You’re pathetic_.)

Kurt’s still watching him, his head crooked just a little, a silent query.

“It’s just a hypothetical question, Mr. Schue,” he says, and he’s smiling again. “You really don't have to look so alarmed.”

“I’m not. I don’t.”

“You look like the world just ran out of vests,” Kurt tells him, and takes a step towards Will. Will backs up, automatically, bumping up against the counter. “If you’d like me to leave, just say the word and I’ll walk right out that door. When I see you at the ten year reunion or Finn’s wedding or one of Rachel’s openings, I’ll be more than happy to pretend that none of this ever happened. Believe me.”

Will shakes his head. That’s worse, somehow, the idea of Kurt leaving now. This whole thing festering between them for years to come. Even if Kurt’s capable of pretending this hasn’t happened, Will doesn’t know if he’s up to that task. No, the best thing is for him to stay, for Kurt to go to bed and Will to go to bed and in the morning, he’ll remember that he was once this boy’s teacher and have a talk with him, set things right. Man. Kurt’s a man. He needs to remember that, too.

“Bed,” he stammers. “Bed, now. You’re not going anywhere tonight. I need to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning when we have, when we’re sober.”  
Somehow Will finds his legs and moves them. He doesn’t look at Kurt as he walks past him, back through the door, as quickly as he can without running, and he mutters something as he goes about the guest bathroom with extra towels in the cupboard if Kurt needs a shower.

“Don’t worry about those pajamas,” Kurt calls after him, “no, really, I don’t need them,” and Will, nearly jogging down the hallway, desperate to get free, is absolutely, definitely not going to think about Kurt wearing Will’s clothes or being out of his own.

In the morning, he’ll be sane again and everything will be okay, or at least familiar.

____

He opens his eyes when the mattress creaks with new weight. The bedroom’s still dark, mostly, but there’s a bit of weak light coming through the blinds. Morning, or close to it.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Kurt says, close behind him, and there’s a hand on his shoulder. “Are you awake?”

Will considers staying quiet. “Yes,” he admits, after a few seconds, and tries to figure out if he’s still drunk. He isn’t sure, which means he’s probably not completely sober yet. “Kurt, you should go back to the guest room. It isn’t – you shouldn’t be in here. It isn’t right.”

“We crossed that line about three hours ago,” Kurt tells him. The curve of his body settles against Will’s own, the heat of Kurt’s bare skin flush with Will’s back. “And despite what you seem to persist in thinking, I’m not your student anymore. I’m also well above the legal age.”

Kurt’s hard. Will can feel it, pressing firm against his ass.

He’s grateful he’s facing away from Kurt, on his side, and he’s grateful for the bed sheets, hiding the heavy length between his legs from sight. It’s embarrassing how quickly he’s gotten hard again; it’s like there's a direct line, some chain in Kurt's dry voice that pulls him, reluctant and wretched, into arousal.

“I’m – I’m very flattered," he tries, reaching for reason. "I really am, but –”

Kurt’s kissing the back of his neck, now, moving slowly over the skin, each press of his mouth dismissing what Will knows are the dying remnants of a weak protest. He reaches back behind him with his left hand, maybe to push Kurt away, and his palm lands on the sharp jut of Kurt’s hip, covered with thin fabric. Boxer briefs, maybe. Very brief.

The contact makes Kurt’s breath stutter on Will’s neck.

“I know what you want, even if you can’t admit it to me,” Kurt says, low. “It’s what I like, too. I like it the same way.”

“I’m not,” Will tries, but he’s wriggling, hand rubbing Kurt’s hip, his other hand giving into the demand of his own cock, cupping it over his pajama pants. “I’m, I can’t.”

“I like it when someone tells me to spread my legs for him, or to bend over. I like being held down. Or getting on all fours, sometimes. Having to hold still while I’m being examined.” He pauses. “I like being looked at.”

“Jesus Christ,” Will gasps, jerking a little, and can’t help but imagine the press of a table on his own forearms. His knees knocking into a hardwood floor as he’s pushed down. A fist grabbing his hair, pulling hard. “Where the hell did you learn to talk like that?”

“I took a class,” Kurt retorts. The sarcasm in his voice really shouldn’t make Will want to turn around, rut up against Kurt like some sort of shameless thing. “Honestly, Mr. Schue, it’s not that challenging. You’d think no one’s ever talked dirty to you before.”

He doesn’t answer, but it’s not far off the mark. Emma had tried, once, closing her eyes while she did it to make herself more comfortable, but the attempt had been pretty embarrassing for both of them. They’d pushed through the encounter with red faces and awkward bodies, used generous amounts of lube to get them to the finish line, and hadn’t spoken about it, afterwards.

“Why don’t you try it,” Kurt suggests. “Tell me what you want.”

Will can’t remember the last time someone’s asked him that.

“Um,” he says. Kurt rocks against his ass, deliberate, insistent, and Will suddenly realizes that Kurt’s hard for him, wants _him_. It’s different, somehow, than just knowing Kurt’s looking for a generic warm body, something to push into, suck on, take in. It’s better. “Those things you said. The things that you like. They sounded good.”

Kurt sighs, sounding impatient, and Will wonders if he’s rolling his eyes. “No wonder none of those women you so infamously dated stuck around for very long, if that’s the best you can do. I’m surprised you managed to get the reputation you had.”

“Hey,” Will says, stung. “Most of that was Sue’s doing.” Some of it had been, anyway. “You remember what it’s like at that school. Rumors get out of hand, people start exaggerating, and before you know it – ” _They’re calling you a whore_ , he almost finishes, but bites it off, in time. It wouldn’t sound right, not here, not in this context.

“I always did wonder how much of that was true. It didn’t seem to match up with your – well. With _you_.”

He probably shouldn’t be offended by that, but he is, a little.

“Should we try that asking-for-what-you-want thing again?” Kurt continues, and Will feels a sharp nip of teeth on the edge of his ear, probably intended to encourage him. He inhales, sharply. “Come on, Mr. Schue. I know you can do it.”

The patronizing note in Kurt’s request makes him uncomfortable. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child, Kurt.”

“Then will you stop acting like one? I swear, if you can’t even ask for it when you’re this obviously turned on, I honestly don’t know how you’ve ever managed to be involved with anyone in the first place.”

“Hey, you’re asking me to step out of my comfort zone.”

“Well, considering your comfort zone is probably limited to having sex with Ms. Pillsbury in the missionary position directly after and before two long, hot showers, I don’t think asking you to leave it is all that big of a request.” His voice rises. “All you have to do is say the words. God, Mr. Schue, you’re completely pathetic, you know that?”

The obvious disdain in Kurt’s voice – “ _Fuck_ ,” Will chokes, unable to stop himself, and rocks back, rubbing against the stiff length of Kurt’s cock. “Oh, fuck, _please_ , like that –”

There’s a pause, and then Kurt says, thickly, “Oh,” hips pushing forward into Will’s ass, the two of them trying for friction together.

Will’s face is hot again. His whole body’s hot, now, swollen with blood and shame and need, droning with want, and he wants to sink into the mattress and disappear.

“I didn’t,” Kurt says, and stops. His hand strokes over Will’s thigh. “I haven’t – intentionally spoken to anyone that way before. In bed, I mean. I could try, if that’s what you’d like me to do.”

“You don’t have to,” Will says, quickly, although he wants Kurt to keep talking, more than anything. His hand pushes beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, clutching his cock, and he strokes up, fist tighter than his usual grip. “I’m not going to ask that of you.”

“Stop being such a pushover,” Kurt returns, clearly irritated, and sits up, reaching across Will’s body for the lamp on the bedside table. He turns the switch, and Will squints in the sudden light, turning his head back to look at Kurt. “We’re going to do this the right way. I’m not going to let you get away with hiding that body of yours.”

He’s kneeling on the mattress now, blinking a little at Will, like he’s daring him to make a remark about his body. Will’s learned his lesson there, at least. Kurt’s upper chest is more muscular than he’d expected. There’s a small, surprising pudge around his middle, a tiny bit of softness cupping his otherwise lean frame, not much to speak of, and Will has to remind himself not to stare before Kurt catches him looking there. He’s sure Kurt must be a little self-conscious about it.

“Do you want me to pull these off?” he asks, kicking the sheets down and gesturing at his pants.

Kurt stares down at him. “In a moment. Take your hand out. I think I want to look at you like this first.”

Will obeys, wishing he’d just gone ahead without asking, because he’s feeling slightly more exposed than he thinks he might if the damn things were lying on the floor. His hard-on’s almost comical, tenting out the cotton fabric like some sort of obscene parody. Just looking at it, though, is enough to make that pull of arousal a little stronger, and Will feels his dick twitch under the pressure of his own gaze, under Kurt’s intent scrutiny.

“You’ve gotten yourself wet, Mr. Schue,” Kurt says, like he’s surprised, and his fingers trace the small damp spot on the front of Will’s pajama pants, rubbing just a little over his cock. “You’re leaking. Look at how hard you are for me already. I’ve barely even touched you.”

Will bites his lip on an apology or a groan, he isn’t sure which, trying not to hitch up into Kurt’s hand. He’s got to maintain some sort of control, a tiny bit of dignity, even though he knows that’s slipping away fast.

“You know, I actually thought about doing this with you, back in high school.” Kurt’s face is fully red now, his cheeks and neck soaked with color. He strokes Will through his pants, roughly, one slow pull that leaves Will dizzy and keening for more after Kurt’s hand lifts, moving up to touch Will’s stomach and chest. “I thought about it more than once. Although the situation I imagined wasn’t exactly like this. It was pretty formulaic, if you want to know the truth. There was detention involved. And yelling. Both of us were yelling at each other. And you pushed my face into your desk while you punished me in extremely inventive ways for my insolence.”

“Uh,” is all Will can manage.

“Did you think about me at all?” Kurt asks, and bends down to press his mouth against the hard plane just south of Will’s belly, where his skin ends and the sweatpants begin. “I won’t tell anyone if you did.”

“No,” Will protests, wondering if Kurt plans on continuing a downward trajectory. “You were my student. I wouldn’t do that. There are boundaries.”

“Of course not.” Kurt lifts the waistband and licks just below it. “Because then you wouldn’t be Teacher of the Year, would you?”

“I didn’t –”

“You’re not a very good liar. If it wasn’t me, it was someone else. Rachel. You always looked at her a little too long. Or Santana.”

“Kurt,” Will says, nearly helpless, and lifts his hips, appealing for attention.

“Look at you, Mr. Schuester. Acting like a slut for me.” He lifts his head, and the hesitant look on his face doesn’t match his offhanded tone. “Is that the sort of word you want to be called? You know, honestly, ‘slut’ sounds a little clichéd. I think I’d rather use something that hasn’t been done to death."

“It works for me,” Will offers, the words coming out strangled.

“I kind of like ‘jezebel,’” Kurt says, thoughtfully, “but that really doesn’t have the same ring to it. How about ‘harlot’? Or ‘trollop.’ Trollop is a good word.”

 _Trollop_? “Kurt, this isn’t the nineteenth century. I’m really okay with ‘slut’.”

He’s rewarded for that comment with an unexpected pinch on his lower stomach, nothing hard enough to hurt badly, but hard enough to feel good, and Kurt seems almost as surprised at the action as Will. A little pleased, too. Will closes his mouth, chastened.

“You’re a failure, Mr. Schue,” Kurt informs him, and then, picking up the pace, “You’re a pathetic disappointment who really doesn’t deserve to be touched. I’m only here because I felt sorry for you.”

He’s nearly positive Kurt doesn’t mean it, that he’s just playing the part, saying his lines because he knows that’s what Will wants. It sounds alarmingly like the truth, though, and that’s what makes Will groan, cock twitching involuntarily against the cotton. What if Kurt’s actually being _honest_ with him?

“We all saw it, you know. We used to talk about it behind your back. How sorry we felt for you. You thought we liked you, but it was mostly pity. Your ex-wife walked all over you. Coach Sylvester walked all over you. Remember how you let Ms. Corcoran take over for that month during senior year, when you clearly didn’t want her anywhere near the choir room?”

“That was different. I was trying to keep the peace. Find a solution that worked for all of us.”

Kurt doesn’t seem to hear him. “If they could all see you now,” he observes, and Will’s breath catches in his throat. He could come, he realizes. He could come, just like this, without being touched, listening to Kurt talk, watching Kurt stare at his body, clearly fascinated by Will’s response. “Rachel. Santana. Finn. Blaine. All of them. They’d see you humping the air. Begging to get touched. Staining your pants because you’re so desperate for it. They’d laugh.”

“Well, you’re clearly a natural at this,” Will manages, after a few seconds of silence.

“Thank you,” Kurt says, sounding flattered. “You know, I really seem to be.”

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Will’s pants, and Will lifts a little off the mattress, obediently, to let Kurt slide them down past his thighs, to his knees, and all the way off. His cock, dark and full, angles up, resting just to the side of the muscled V bisecting his pelvis. Kurt looks at it, and Will watches his face, fascinated by Kurt’s response, as Kurt slips his hand beneath the tight band of his boxer briefs, finding his own cock, stroking it a little.

“God, you’re so turned on,” Kurt murmurs, and there’s a little hitch to his breath that makes Will’s heart stutter for a beat or two. “You’d do whatever I wanted you to do. Say whatever I asked you to say. You’d beg for it, wouldn’t you?”

Will’s only able to nod.

“Fuck.” Kurt inhales. “Do you want to suck me? Do you want to get your mouth around me?”

Hearing Kurt Hummel say that to him – Will’s mind goes white. His body answers before his mind does, demanding agreement.

“Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, I want to do that. Let me do that for you. Please, Kurt.”

“I hope you have a condom,” Kurt says, and pulls down his underwear.

Will does. He’s never been so grateful for anything in his entire life. He rolls over, finding the bedside table and yanking open the drawer. There’s a strip of condoms in the back, a bottle of lube, too (he’s not going to think about Emma right now, he’s _not_ ) and he grabs both, dropping them on the bed, not bothering to shut the drawer behind him.

Kurt holds out his hand, looking amused.

Will’s own hands are shaking as he tries to tear open the wrapper, once, and then a second time when the first try proves fruitless. Kurt wiggles his open, impatient fingers, sighing when Will finally places the freed condom on his palm.

“How –” Will clears his throat, half-sitting, his legs tucked under him. “How do we do this?”

It’s remarkable, Kurt’s talent for superciliousness even he’s when rolling on a condom. “I can believe a lot of things about your sex life or lack thereof, Mr. Schue, even if there are some details I’d rather have kept from me for all eternity, but forgive me if I find it incredibly hard to believe you’ve never had a blowjob.”

“Of course I have,” Will says, stung. “I’ve just never been on the giving end. I want to make it good for you, Kurt. That’s – I just want it to be good.” He almost adds _I want to make things better_ but thankfully manages to keep that tucked inside at the last second. He’s still not sure, if Kurt asked him to clarify, what these ‘things’ would be. Fumbling around in the dark of his life, like usual, like he’s always done.

There’s a softness to Kurt’s face, when Will looks at him, nervously, that hasn’t been there all night. Maybe Kurt understands what he’s thinking after all. Softness, and some pity. His cock twitches a little in response.

“It’ll be good,” Kurt says, gently, “you’ll be fine,” and then, “You can start by getting off the bed and onto the floor. I think I’d like to see you on your knees.”

Will obeys, promptly, and after about five seconds in the requested position wishes Terri had never gone through her anti-carpeting phase. The hardwood floor is painful on the unpadded bone. He swallows, uncomfortable, as Kurt stands naked in front of him, one hand fisting firmly in his hair.

Up close, like this, it becomes real in a way it hadn’t been until now, Will’s head still foggy with sleep and the waning grip of alcohol. He stares at Kurt’s light brown curls, cropped short and neat, the smooth, pallid skin around his thighs and groin. His cock heavy with arousal and proud, straining up, longer than Will’s own but thinner, maybe.

Will braces his hands on either side of Kurt’s thighs and then, because the thought occurs to him, slips them up and around to cup Kurt’s ass, briefly. It’s plump, round under his fingers. Firm, too.

“Use your hand first,” Kurt instructs, his voice rough and uneven. “You should see the way you look right now. Your face.”

Will doesn’t answer. He touches the side of Kurt’s cock with hesitant fingertips, tracing along the length. Kurt groans, hips jerking a little, and he’s close enough to Will’s face that his cock smacks lightly against Will’s cheek.

“More,” Kurt gasps.

The pain in his knees is shouting through his thighs now, demanding his attention, but Will’s not going to let on about a little thing like that, not when he’s got a task to get done. He licks his hand and closes it around Kurt, gripping close like he likes it himself, pretty sure that it’s what Kurt wants, too. He moves, slowly for the first few strokes, then quickly, picking up speed, finding a rhythm. Kurt makes a choked sound and pulls, hard, on Will’s hair.

“Give me your mouth, come on –”

Will pushes his fist to the base of Kurt’s cock and finds the tip with his mouth and tongue, tentative at first, taking him in. There’s a hard jerk on his hair he takes to mean encouragement. He opens wider, willing, sucking harder, stroking down because that’s what he likes, it’s what he knows.

Reaching up with a free hand, he finds the small of Kurt’s back, pressing there, needing the contact. The skin under his fingers is damp with new perspiration, and he sucks as best he can, slicking Kurt with his mouth and he listens for Kurt’s uneven breaths, whining now, coming faster, giving him wordless praise.

Kurt pulls hard on his hair again, this time yanking Will back, and Will releases him, unsure, looking up. His mouth feels hollow now, weirdly deprived.

“I need,” Kurt tries, and then swallows, noticeably. “We have to stop or I’m going to come and I don’t want to do that yet.”

Small, undeniable pride fills him. _He’s_ done that. “All right.”

“You’re going to fuck me now,” Kurt says, in a rush, staring down at Will. “I’ve changed my mind. I was going to screw you because I know that’s what you want even if you can’t ask for it, and I wouldn’t mind doing that still, but I would really like – I need you to fuck me. I want to be fucked right now.” His mouth is red, a little wet, and his tongue slips out, licking the lower lip, maybe unconsciously. “Will you do that?”

“Yes,” Will says, trying not to stare too hard at Kurt’s mouth. Everything’s moving quickly enough that he hadn’t thought ahead past whatever Kurt’s current request or demand might be. The change in Kurt’s plans isn’t much of a disappointment, not when he’s fixed on the increasingly hungry look on Kurt’s face (for _him_ , Will reminds himself). He’ll take that need however Kurt wants to give it. “That’s fine. Whatever you want. Where do you want me?”

Kurt points to the bed, and Will, wanting to move quickly for him, make him happy, pushes himself off the floor, knees screaming in protest. Old man Schuester, could’ve done that fine ten years ago, maybe five, but not anymore. He grits his teeth, taking the pain in. He can deal with it.

While he’s standing still, trying to collect himself, Kurt’s busying himself with sliding off the spit-slicked condom, wrapping it carefully in a tissue. He deposits it in the small wicker waste bin next to Will’s bedside table, a leftover from life with Terri he’d kept out of habit. “It doesn’t hurt to clean up after yourself,” he says, when he notices Will’s staring, and turns to the mattress again, picking up the discarded bottle of lube, sitting down with it.

“What,” Will begins, and then cuts himself off, joining Kurt on the edge of the mattress. He doesn’t need to make himself look more like an idiot than he already has.

Kurt doesn’t answer him right away. He squeezes out what looks like a generous amount, covering the middle three fingers on his right hand, then holds out the bottle to Will. His fingers, coated, shine, and Will takes it from him. The room’s brighter now, coming to life with the effort of the early morning.

“Come here,” Kurt tells him, finally, and positions himself on the bed, reclining on his back, feet pressed against the mattress, knees bent and touching. “Sit at my feet. I want you to look at me while I do this. Touch yourself.”

Will nods, settling in front of Kurt. His hand finds his cock again, rubbing it, waiting.

Kurt spreads his knees wide, cock bobbing a little at the movement, straining towards the soft, flat plane of his lower belly. With his eyes trained on Will’s face, he lifts his hips, just slightly.

“I’m going to get ready for you,” he says. “Nice and wet.”

The sound that comes out of Will is thin, helpless, and Kurt reaches a hand around the side of his right thigh, between his legs, sliding a slick finger inside his hole. It moves slowly in and out, in and out.

“Good?” Will asks, hoarsely. It’s all he can manage.

“Feels so good,” Kurt whimpers, eyes closed now, and grips his cock with his other hand, pumping steadily. His breath hitches. A small moan escapes his mouth. “Are you watching me? Of course you’re watching. God – I’m ready for another one –”

“I’m watching you, I’m watching.” Will couldn’t look away now if someone paid him. His rhythm twins with Kurt’s, fist moving at the same rate up and down his shaft, and he fumbles around blindly for the strip of condoms he’d left somewhere on the mattress, looking for the feedback of plastic wrapping on his fingers.

Kurt adds a second slicked finger, still moving slowly, then a third. “Put it on,” he orders. “Right now. I don’t know if I can wait much longer.”

The condoms find his hand, somehow, and Will leaves his cock for the moment, ripping one of the wrappers, rolling the freed rubber on and down. It’s tight, but he doesn’t mind. He likes the pressure; enjoys it, even.

“I’m ready,” he says, the second it’s fitted, lightly pinching the tip to make sure he’s got room. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Kurt slips his wet fingers free. He opens his eyes. “Come here,” he tells Will again, pulling his bent legs up, his knees reaching towards his shoulders, everything exposed, now. His face is proud, defiant. “Fuck me.”

When he pushes inside Kurt, just a few inches at first, leaning down close while he guides himself inside, Kurt’s hands drop down to the mattress. They press flat against the fitted sheet, tense with strain.

“No, it’s good,” he breathes, when Will, suddenly unsure, stops moving and asks if he’s all right. “You’re doing good. It’s good.” Then, clearly remembering what he’d promised to give Will, he adds, “Your hair looks like a Brillo pad up this close.”

It’s unexpectedly funny. Will has to try not to laugh out loud. “A Brillo pad? That’s all you’ve got? Believe me, I’ve heard worse.”

“Whatever hair product you’re using, you – _God_ , keep doing that. More.”

Will isn’t sure what he’s just done to make Kurt make that sound, but he pushes in, deeper, more than halfway inside Kurt now, oh, fuck, so tight and unforgiving around him, so hot on his cock, and Kurt moans, rising off the mattress, pushing back, eager for it. “Slut,” he manages, the word almost two syllables, disintegrating. “Harlot. What was the other, what did I – failure, you’re a failure, _fuck_ , move faster, go faster, listen to me, do it –”

Moving now, he’s moving, sliding, leaning down into Kurt, close, and his mouth presses against Kurt’s hairline, the top of his forehead as he tries to follow Kurt’s instructions. Kurt’s gasping now, getting louder, and Will feels the movement of his hand as he slides it between their bodies, jerking his cock hard and quick.

“I’m going to come,” Kurt says, suddenly, his voice sliding up into a whimper, “Mr. Schue, I can’t, I’m going – oh –” and then he’s seizing below Will, crying out, wordless as he climaxes, and Will, feeling a stray track of hot come strike his stomach, can’t hold back either. He groans, Kurt’s thighs grip him hard, shaking with effort and Will lets go, emptying inside him, giving over to the white, glad shock of release.

They cling together, for maybe a little longer than they need to. Will, hazy, is just thinking that he likes the closeness nearly as much as the orgasm, the heat and sweat of it. The small, shallow breaths coming out of Kurt and the way his bed smells now, like someone else, and then Kurt says, softly, a hand touching his shoulder, “You should probably pull out now, Will. It’s over. We’re done.”

“Oh,” Will says. “Of course.”

_____

There’s no question of going back to sleep afterwards. It’s morning, the day undeniably here.

Will stumbles his way into the kitchen, half-dressed, still a little dazed with what’s just happened, while the old water pipes keep up their muted hum for Kurt’s shower. There’s a few eggs left on the middle shelf of the fridge, still several days out from their expiry date, and he grabs them, thinking that even if Kurt doesn’t want breakfast, at least this’ll keep him busy while he waits.

He’s got a lot of thinking to do, he’s realizing, about a lot of things. The idea doesn’t sit well with him, but it’s like Emma used to say, her language flush with therapeutic jargon in those first few excited months of recovery: just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it isn’t necessary. Maybe he doesn’t know himself as well as he’d always assumed. Or what he wants, or why he wants it.

The whisk spins in the eggs, albumen disappearing into the yellow of the yolk.

“Well,” Kurt says behind him, a little too brightly. “This was – an interesting experience.”

“Interesting is a good word for it,” Will agrees, turning around. Kurt’s hair is nicer like this, he thinks, damp and soft without product. In the daylight that shirt of his actually looks pretty neat. Like modernist art. “Did you want breakfast? I’m making eggs.”

“I can see that.” The wry note is back in full force. “No, thanks. I’m fine. I used your phone to call a cab, so I’ll be leaving now.”

Will hadn’t expected Kurt to stay for long, but he can’t help feeling a little flex of disappointment. “All right,” he says, and lets the whisk drop in the bowl, wiping his hands on his thighs. It’s old denim, not worth keeping clean. “I guess this is goodbye. Until Rachel’s opening.”

“Until Rachel’s opening,” Kurt repeats. “Yes, of course you’d come to the city for that. I’ll see you then, I’m sure.”

He isn’t sure what to do. Hug Kurt? Wave? Just turn back to the eggs? There’s no protocol for any of this, and it’s not like he’s ever been the best at morning-after exchanges. Kurt seems at odds, too, his hands uncharacteristically busy, touching his hair first, lightly, then falling to his sides.

“Sometime,” Will says, and takes a deep breath.

“Yes?”

“In the future, if you’d like to – those things you said, last night, at the bar. About high school, and me. I only remember some of them. But if you’d like to talk about it again someday, I can promise you I’ll try harder to hear you out. Sober, this time. I think I owe you that, at least.”

Kurt nods, his mouth pursed. “Thank you,” he says, his voice a little unsteady. “Maybe someday. Thank you for saying that.”

There’s a honk somewhere outside, two short bursts and a long, steady blare. The cab.

“I think I understand some things a little better now,” Kurt tells him, softly, and he takes a couple of steps forward, leaning in, pressing a quick kiss to Will’s mouth.

Will, surprised, forgets to kiss back until Kurt’s already moved away, and then it’s too late. He swallows the urge to ask for another try.

“You know, I’ve learned a lot about myself from you, Mr. Schue,” Kurt says, walking through towards the dining room, not looking back.

The front door opens and closes before Will can tell him the same thing.


End file.
